


'tis the season

by vampirerising



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Holidays, M/M, Mistletoe, Pining, Stanlon (if you squint), This is so soft, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirerising/pseuds/vampirerising
Summary: Six times Eddie and Richie ended up under the mistletoe.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 39
Kudos: 330





	'tis the season

**Author's Note:**

> the process of writing this was simple: i lost my mind at work listening to the same christmas playlist for four days straight. please appreciate small eddie kaspbrak, who _pines_. it's super embarrassing

**i.**

Eddie is thirteen and his mother still picks out his clothes.

He scowls, hidden away in a corner of the Derry Middle School gymnasium, tugging at the collar of his incredibly itchy sweater. He scratches at the hives that are undoubtedly rising around his neck, red, angry things that hiss when his nails make contact, that sound inexplicably like his mother. _I told you so_ , they seem to say. _Eddie-bear, I told you that dance would be no good for you, look, you have eczema! You know they don’t deep clean that school right, Eddie-bear, you did this to yourself—_

He stops, curls his fingers into a fist, and thinks, almost nonsensically, _I’m pretty sure you’re just using a detergent that irritates my skin on purpose._

There is no answer. His mother is not here, and his body cannot speak to him. He’s just going crazy, lurking in the shadows at this stupid winter dance, watching everyone else somehow have a good time.

It’s not like he _wants_ to be here; funnily enough Eddie is not a big fan of faculty-chaperoned events—y’know, because he typically ends up getting bullied in the bathroom or the hallway or out front, where no adult ever is—but Bev thought it’d be fun since they were all friends now. And that snowballed out of control: Bill has never said no to a single thing Bev has ever suggested, and Ben will jump at any chance to hang out with her, even if he’s third wheeling. Stan’s nosiness is enough to get him to go, if only for the drama alone, and Richie’s only here to see if they really _do_ spike the punch, like in the movies. They even snuck Mike in, and it doesn’t seem to matter that he doesn’t go to their school.

And Eddie doesn’t have to be here. He could have stayed home, but it’s the principle of the thing. His mother said no. She was adamant about it, throwing around words like _forbidden_ and _dirty_ and _unclassy_ , like he has plans to spit on his father’s grave, not sit around the gym for three hours. His resolve solidified, as it always does when she tries to tell him what he can’t do, and now he’s here after hours of back and forth arguing. It is _miserable_ , but he won’t leave. He can’t. That’ll just prove her right, even though she’s so remarkably wrong.

So he nibbles on Sally Mueller’s mom’s homemade sugar cookies and watches people dance and laugh and cannot fathom how they think this is super fun when their weird health teacher is standing not even seven feet away.

“Eds!” Richie all but careens into him, getting crumbs all over Eddie's front. His hair is sweaty and sticking to his forehead. “What are you doing over here?”

Eddie really wishes he wouldn’t call him that. It’s such an irritating nickname that it bothers _all_ of him; any time he hears it, his heart races, revving up like he’s about to get into a fight, and his jaw kind of locks. He has to pry it open to remind Richie his name is _Eddie_ , which Richie _knows_ , but he’s so annoying and likes to pick on Eddie because he’s short. He tells him that _a lot_ , and they’re only thirteen, but Richie practically towers over him. Eddie wants to throttle him.

He also wishes he’d take better care of his things. His glasses, in particular, which are wrapped around the middle with layers of tape and currently covered in so many fingerprints Eddie is surprised he can see.

“Waiting for them to play something good,” he decides to say, reaching out to grab Richie’s glasses. “The school band sucks.”

Richie flinches when Eddie’s fingers get too close to him, his eyes automatically shutting. Eddie mumbles something that sounds like an apology. Anytime there is a hand that close to Richie, he’s getting punched. That’s how these things got like this in the first place. Bowers takes Richie’s vision problems like a personal offense.

His eyes look more extreme like this, free of the bulky frames, and Eddie looks at them for a second, at the long, dark lashes and the way Richie’s gaze seems all-encompassing. His attention always makes Eddie feel a little wonky; he’s never sure if he’s going to make a joke at his expense or not, so he braces himself, waiting for the punchline.

Nothing comes.

It’s just Richie and his eyes, squinting and staring at him. That seems somehow worse, so Eddie clears his throat. There’s definitely a joke brewing in that head of his. He always looks at Eddie like this before he says something gross about his mom.

Eddie ducks his head and rubs at the lenses with the bottom of his sweater. It’s itchy but also soft, good for buffing out all of these fingerprints. He asks, to break the silence, “You find out if they spike the punch?”

“I hope so.” Richie clicks his tongue and grimaces. “It tastes like shit, so I really hope that’s not, like, someone’s grandma’s punch recipe. I’d hate to have to tell them their grandma fucking sucks.”

“Don’t drink too much of it then,” Eddie suggests, handing Richie his glasses back. Nothing will fix how truly awful they are, but at least it looks like he knows you have to clean the lenses every once and a while.

Richie puts them back on and grins at him. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, squeezing his arm.

“You looked like a dumbass,” Eddie replies. He scratches at his wrist, where the sweater bunched up around Richie's hand. Ugh.

Richie’s smile softens, playing at his mouth in a different sort of way now, and the blue of the lights makes him look—not terrible, Eddie thinks. His hair has grown since the summer, curling nicely at his ears, but Richie doesn’t take care of it much. It looks like a bird decided to nest in it all day every day, but today it’s—he clearly brushed it. Also not terrible.

Eddie is going to say something—he doesn’t know what, though—but Richie looks at something on the wall above and behind Eddie’s head, licks his lips, and leans forward to kiss Eddie’s cheek.

“Uh,” Eddie blurts.

Richie pulls his shoulders into a shrug that hits his ears and points behind him. “Mistletoe.”

With a twist, Eddie looks up to see that the decorating committee taped little cutouts all around the gym—snowflakes, mainly, but mistletoe is there, too, and Eddie is standing right under it. “It’s a decoration,” he says.

“Yeah, well, thanks,” Richie replies quickly. Eddie blinks at him, confused, and watches him spin on his heel. “I’m gonna get more punch and ruin Bill and Bev’s slow dance. You want any?”

Eddie doesn’t get a chance to answer—and the answer is a resounding _no_ , by the way—before Richie is running through the couples on the dancefloor to collide into their friends. Bev’s laugh is unmistakable, even as Richie takes her by the hands and twirls her.

Eddie looks at the mistletoe above his head, at Richie and Bill and Bev, and scratches at his cheek. Then his collarbone. Then his wrist.

He feels hot all of a sudden—hot and itchy and kind of nauseous—and his heart is pounding a mile a minute. He wracks his brain to remember what the side effects of eczema are. Wonders if he’s gotten food poisoning from the questionable snacks they have here and if Sally’s mom’s cookies are actually full of nuts. He’s so stupid. He should have asked before he ate them.

He watches Richie laugh, head thrown back, hair flying all around his face, and scratches at his cheek again. It’s throbbing like he’s been slapped. His fingers go from face to neck to arm again, scratching, scratching, scratching.

This sweater is so fucking _itchy_. He’s throwing it out when he gets home.

* * *

**ii.**

Eddie is fourteen and Stan is wearing a cozy blue pullover with a giant menorah on it.

“That’s actually holly,” he says, pointing at Richie, if only to keep him at arm’s length. “It often gets confused with mistletoe. There are no legends about holly.”

“Fuck off, Stan. _You're_ under it. _I'm_ under it. Let me kiss you,” Richie whines, all soft-looking with his sleeves too long and his face still pink from the chill outside.

“It’s not mistletoe,” Stan says.

Richie rolls his eyes. “This playing hard to get thing is so old, Stanley.”

“I am not _playing hard to get_ ,” Stan squawks. “I do not want to kiss you. I do not want you to kiss me. Don’t you dare move closer to me.”

“Oh, you know you want to.” Richie blows a curl out of his face. His mouth quirks, his eyes narrow, and Eddie thinks he looks like a cat—a kitten, maybe—getting ready to pounce. Cute, sort of. 

“I most certainly do not,” Stan retorts. “Get away from—do you _know_ what the word _no_ means?”

“ _Yes_ , I know what _no_ means, fuck’s sake, Stan,” Richie splutters. “Why would there be mistletoe—”

“—it’s _HOLLY_ —”

“—hung up here if Bev’s aunt did not want people smoochin’ under it?” Richie asks, lifting a palm to cup the—Eddie’s not sure if Stan is right or if Richie is right, but it’s artificial, whatever it is. “Look, Eds’ll let me!”

And there is only time for Eddie to blink before Richie is crowding into Eddie’s space, bending his neck to press his mouth to Eddie’s forehead, long and lingering and warm. Eddie’s eyes flutter shut, and his heart races, and he counts to six before Richie pulls away, gesturing to him with long arms and wiggling fingers.

Eddie’s tongue is incredibly dry and everything smells like Richie, like sweat, and his shampoo, and this weird musk that Eddie can never place. He has no idea what the purpose of that was. He hates being part of Richie and Stan’s idiotic shenanigans. 

“Yeah, well,” Stan says, all but leaping over the back of the couch, “I’m not Eddie.”

Richie has chased Stan around half of Bev’s aunt’s house by the time Eddie’s brain is fully functioning enough again to process what Stan said. Or, you know, sort of process it. He yells after them, “The fuck is _that_ supposed to mean? I wasn’t even _under_ —”

But Stan is shouting, “ _Get away from me, you MONGREL_ ,” and Richie’s laughter is so infectious and sweet that Eddie’s complaint dies on his tongue (and Stan laughs with him, even as he tries to kick him in the face). 

Eddie listens to Richie, huffing. Blood rushes to his ears. His head _hurts_ , like Richie stabbed him where he kissed him. 

There is the thud of bodies hitting the floor and Stan yells, “No, stop, get off me! The mistl—the _holly_ is back there, there’s no reason for you to kiss me, get your gross mouth off my face, Tozier, I will _end_ you—”

And Richie is making exaggerated kissing sounds, puckering up and smacking his lips against Stan. Eddie doesn’t look because Richie is being annoying and uncultured and when someone says no, you should really respect their decision. God, Richie is so—

He laughs again, Richie, and he does this little giggle-snort thing. Eddie bites his lower lip hard, startled by it, and coughs, feeling warm all over.

Stan and Richie’s mock-fighting is the only sound in the house, and Eddie finds himself glancing around just for something to do while he waits. The mirror across from where he’s sitting shows him his reflection, his body contorted into a ball on the couch. 

He’s got his arms wrapped around his legs, chin atop his knees, and his cheeks are the same ruddy red as his shirt. It’s got a bunch of cats on it, piled on each other in the shape of a Christmas tree, and Eddie loves it even though he’s allergic to them in real life. The color is burning a trail down the length of his neck, and he thinks maybe he can see the shape of Richie’s kiss on his forehead, marking him. Permanent and loud, just like Richie. He can feel it, that’s for sure. Feels it like it’s just been tattooed there for everyone to see, burning and aching, and he rubs at the skin to alleviate the pressure.

Bev catches his eye, sitting next to him, looking into the mirror too, like she’s seeing something he’s not. He feels as if he’s been caught doing something wrong, which he hasn’t; he’s been nothing but polite since he got here. Bev smirks at him and his blush deepens, a literal impossibility, but the proof is right in front of him, his face a tomato that he hides in his thighs.

“I win,” Richie announces breathlessly, dropping onto the couch on Eddie’s other side. He taps his fingers against the top of Eddie’s head and tugs at him, trying to untangle his limbs so he’s got something to lay on. Eddie is tiny and soft and it is his duty as the smallest one there to make sure Richie is comfortable or something. Eddie follows dutifully, blindly, letting Richie manhandle him into his side. He whispers conspiratorially into Eddie’s ear, “Stan is an awful kisser.”

Stan whacks Richie on the back of the head and purposely makes a scene of sitting as far away from him as possible. He ends up smooshed between the end of the other couch and Ben, and says, emotionlessly, “He has no idea if I’m a good kisser or not, and I will only say this once: If he comes near me again, I will not hesitate to murder him.”

“Don’t need to. I got everything I need right here,” Richie replies, pressing his hands (cold) to Eddie’s cheeks (heated) with a furrow of his brow. “Why you so pink?”

“Hot,” Eddie mumbles, sinking into the cushions. He refrains from touching his forehead even though he wants to, just to check if he has, like, a fever or something. He elects to wait it out if he does and curls his hand in the material of Richie’s hoodie, where he hides his face until he calms down.

He does not relax until he separates from him, six hours later. His hands don’t stop shaking, even after Richie’s gone. 

* * *

**iii.**

Eddie is fifteen and he’s had three glasses of the weird spiked eggnog Richie pulled out of his backpack. 

They’re attempting Secret Santa again despite the disastrous way it ended last year. It seems different this time around, but maybe that’s just the eggnog talking, simultaneously heightening and dulling his senses. It’s an overwhelming feeling, but everyone else seems to be acting the exact same way. It also gives him a reason to stare; maybe that’s why he drinks so much—to give his hands something to do and to have something to blame when he inevitably gets caught. 

Richie unwraps Bill’s gift, a fucking joke book, and quirks a brow.

Bill says, “Suh-suh-so you know what a rrrrrreal joke is.”

“Big Bill, you may be the little leader of our merry band of losers, but you are the fucking _worst_ ,” Richie replies. “So I’ll know what a real joke is. _Okay_. Lemme get you any book _ever_ so you can find out what a _good ending_ is.”

Bev laughs, slaps her hand over her mouth, and tries to refrain from cackling. It doesn’t work out that well.

Bill splutters, the combination of stutter, amusement, and alcohol keeping him from saying a single word. He flips Richie off, and Richie sighs dramatically, petting the cover of his joke book. “Another year gone and I still don’t get what I want. Christmas is pointless.”

Stan snorts. “If you celebrated Hanukkah, you’d have seven more tries.”

“That’s true!” Richie says. “Sign me up. I’m converting. Stan, I’m going to temple with you.”

“No, you’re not,” Stan replies. “Last time you stepped foot in my temple, you gave me your crazy and I freaked out in the middle of my bar mitzvah. You’re not allowed to be Jewish.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Richie says, “but sure. Revoke my Jew card. It’s fine. I didn’t want to be one anyway. I could end up like you.”

“You wish you could end up like me,” Stan retorts. “What have you got going for you?” He waits a beat, not giving Richie enough time to respond, and says, “That’s right. Nothing.”

Eddie watches the way Richie bites his lip to keep himself from laughing. His eyes roam the planes of his face, growing into something else, something leaner— _older_ —as puberty shakes away the baby fat clinging to his cheeks. His jawline is starting to sharpen out, and his new glasses finally frame his face in a way that makes him—that—you can actually see that he’s not, like, _hideous_ , but Eddie’s always thought—

He freezes when Richie looks at him, cheeks flushed a pretty, pretty pink, the color traveling down his throat, and Eddie wants to follow it with his—he wonders what it would be like to—it’s so long and smooth and the neck of his sweater is too big and stretched out, seemingly lengthening it. Eddie has this inexplicable feeling that he’s going to sneeze, locked in Richie’s gaze again, which has darkened. 

Eddie’s fingers twitch. 

Richie runs his tongue along his lip. Eddie hones in it, the roaring in his ears growing louder. 

And then Bev recovers enough to ask Richie what he really wanted for Christmas this year if it wasn’t that, and it’s over, whatever that was. He can hear again. 

Bill says something like, “You mean he didn’t want a juh-juh-jokebook? I was shuh-shuh- _sure_ that’s what it said on his list.”

But Richie is still looking at Eddie and it feels like he is swallowing him whole, feels like he can see everything Eddie is, everything Eddie doesn’t know he can be. Eddie thinks maybe he is free-falling into oblivion. He’s always felt like that, has always been getting caught in Richie’s eyes, which are—they’re really nice, dark and deep, and his attention is always so singular, always on Eddie when he wants it to be, and Eddie always wants his attention, he wants—

Richie’s mouth says, “Eddie,” and stops there. He answers Bev’s _What do you want for Christmas?_ with Eddie’s name, and Eddie hears the way he rests at the end, leaving no room for anything else. He does not pause for a punchline, does not do that little half-smile that means he’s got more to say. Because he does not. That was the answer. 

_Eddie_ was the answer. 

He looks at him, and he tilts his head, and the way his gaze feels against Eddie changes. Everyone else falls away. There is only the two of them and Eddie’s galloping heart that seems to reply loudly with every beat. Surely they can all hear it.

Bill must not because he says, “Yeah, Eddie’s mom, we know. Can’t you be serious for once?” and the moment breaks.

Eddie digs his teeth into the rim of his glass as he swallows the rest of his drink. He doesn’t think he’s supposed to have this much dairy but it really doesn’t matter anymore. 

Richie shrugs, smiles at Eddie, who smacks his lips, and says, “I was.” He looks away, adds, “I would die for Mrs. K’s love and affection. I ask for her every year, but I’m never on Santa’s nice list.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie retorts, because that’s what he’s supposed to say, but his heart is in his throat. Or is it in his stomach? He can't find it. “Can’t you pine after someone else’s mom?”

“Nope.” Richie pops the _p_. “It’s Sonia all day, every day, baby. No one else comes close.”

“Ugh,” Eddie complains, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m getting more eggnog. Does anyone want?”

Bev does, but she orders hers specifically with whipped cream and extra cinnamon on top, and Eddie wrinkles his nose at her. “I am not a waiter,” he tells her.

“You asked,” she says.

“You know,” Mike pipes up, “that sounds good, actually. Can you make me one?”

“Yeah, same,” Bill agrees.

Eddie balks at them but says nothing, and makes his way into the kitchen, regretting all of his decisions. He has no idea where Bill’s family keeps their spices, or if he even has whipped cream, and he spins back around to go ask when he bumps into Richie.

Richie, who followed him.

Richie, who has that look on his face again.

Richie, who seems so tall, who is so pretty, who renders Eddie speechless for approximately thirty seconds as he gazes up at him.

“Hey,” Richie says.

“Hey.”

“Do I, like, really upset you with the mom jokes?” he asks.

This is not a question Eddie has ever prepared for. Richie normally doesn’t care if he upsets anybody when he kids around, and even though he takes the thing with Eddie’s mom farther than he has to, it seems like it’s really something else most of the time and Eddie can’t find it in himself to mind. It’s like… like the nicknames. Their own secret thing. He says one thing but means another.

“No,” Eddie says.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “It’s fine. I don’t—it doesn’t bother me.”

Not anymore, at least. When he was, like, ten, he’d hated it, already self-conscious about his mom, and not sure if Richie really liked him in the first place. He was small and scrawny and had an overbearing mother and asthma and a bunch of other shit that was wrong with him, and no one really _had_ to interact with him. His mother would’ve liked that, would’ve liked to have Eddie all to herself, and what the fuck would happen to him then? Who would he be? Certainly not this. 

Richie shuffles closer. “You sure?” he questions, like he’s not convinced. Like Eddie wouldn’t really let him have it if he didn’t like something. “I only do it ‘cause I like you.”

“Can’t imagine what you’d do if you didn’t,” Eddie says back, those three words a punch to the gut. _I like you_. He knows Richie does, obviously, or else they wouldn’t hang out so much, but for some reason they feel different. Like something else. Like the jokes.

“Probably ignore you, if I’m honest,” Richie says.

“Oh.” That settles in his stomach like a stone, sinking and uncomfortable. No Richie? His entire life has been _Richie this_ and _Richie that_. He can’t imagine it not being that way. The same question comes into play: Where would he be, if not for this, if not for him? _Who_ would he be without the constant teasing and the attention? “Don’t do that, please.”

The _please_ seems like too much, but it’s already out of his mouth. 

Richie digs his teeth into his bottom lip and smiles. “Wouldn’t be able to anyways,” he admits, “you’re too cute to ignore.”

Eddie used to not like when Richie called him cute, but his cheeks heat up now in Bill’s kitchen. It always seemed like an insult before, like he was teasing him for things out of Eddie’s control. No one calls Mike cute, or Bill, or Stan. Adults call Ben adorable still, and that’s because of his cheeks, but Eddie is cute. Eddie will always just be _cute_ , which is—it’s annoying, but when Richie says it now, says _cute cute cute_ , it’s like he means it, like he can’t believe Eddie looks the way he does and he’s allowed to be in his presence. It’s odd, how Eddie feels—kind of like he can’t breathe but in a good way, if that’s possible. That feeling spreads throughout him, warming him up from his head to his toes. If this were three years ago, he’d be reaching for an inhaler he doesn’t need. 

He thinks he might need it, though, thinks he’d be comforted by it as Richie leans forward. There is nothing but him, just Richie, getting closer and closer, smelling spicy and sweet, a combination of eggnog and the perfume Bev sprayed him with earlier. He hovers over him for a second and Eddie drinks him in, a face he knows yet somehow doesn’t. A face that has his blood pumping, _racing_ , as he stands there, not any closer than Eddie’s used to. But it seems different right now, seems—he doesn’t know, like something is shifting, and he is hyper-aware of the way the sugar is sticking to the backs of his teeth and how Richie’s knees are bumping into his legs. 

Richie cups the side of his neck, tilts Eddie’s chin up, and boops his nose against Eddie’s. Drops his head even more to press a quick kiss to it, and pulls away with a sharp inhale. He points up at the mistletoe hanging in the kitchen doorway, and files past him, ruffling the curls at the back of his head. Eddie watches them bounce.

Eddie moves after a second of quiet contemplation, looking at the plant. His stomach swoops and swirls and twists and he lies to his mother later when he throws up in the bathroom. He’s dizzy, but not enough to be unable to replay the memory of Richie’s mouth, soft and sure, kissing his nose like he does that all the time.

He gags, forehead against the toilet seat, and lets himself wish he’d been kissed elsewhere. 

On Monday, he stays home from school. 

* * *

**iv.**

Eddie is sixteen and Richie has snow in his hair.

School is closed due to weather conditions, but it doesn’t stop the Losers from braving the elements and trudging to the Barrens, where the snow piles up deepest, making it a perfect spot to camp out. Eddie is wearing about seven different layers but the chill is still seeping into the very marrow of his bones. He thinks his boots may be defective because his toes feel frozen solid, stuck together. 

“Ugh,” he says, looking at Richie, who doesn’t believe in winter hats, and pushes himself on his tiptoes to brush it out. He touches his ears, cold cold _cold_ , and frowns. “They’re going to fall off if you don’t cover them.” 

Richie’s mouth twitches. “Is that your professional diagnosis, Doctor Kaspbrak?” 

Eddie’s hands go back to Richie’s curls at the nape of his neck, still wet from when Ben shoved him into the ground. He twists them between his fingers. Richie’s breath hitches, coming out in a cloud between them, and his glasses fog up. 

“Yes,” Eddie says. “Do you want your ears?” 

“Only so I can continue to hear you nag at me,” Richie replies cheekily. 

“I do not _nag_ ,” Eddie retorts, tugging on his earlobe. “I worry. There is a difference.” 

“Fine, I would like to keep my ears so I can continue to hear you worry about me,” Richie amends. 

Eddie glares at him. “Please wear a hat.” 

“Can I wear yours?” He flicks the little pom-pom on top. “It’s cute.” 

“No, it’s mine,” Eddie says. “Get your own.”

“But I want it,” Richie complains, holding Eddie’s face. He’s wearing fingerless gloves, which is stupid, and he makes Eddie shiver. “I wanna look as cute as you!” 

“I can tell you where I got it,” Eddie suggests. 

“Not the same,” says Richie. The knit material of his gloves gets his cheeks wet as he shoves them up and into his hair, trying to slip the hat off without Eddie noticing. He has no idea Eddie is in tune with Richie’s hands, constantly aware of where they are and what they’re doing. It's not going to work.

He presses his own palm to the top of his head, fighting Richie’s creeping fingers, and Richie doesn’t laugh, he _giggles_ , as he tries to pry it off. The sound careens through Eddie’s head, played over and over like a favorite song. 

And then Richie is stumbling forward, slipping because he doesn’t own proper winter footwear, and mumbling, “Oh, shit,” as he tumbles over, bringing Eddie down with him. 

The snow is soft as Eddie’s back hits the ground, but Richie’s body feels like a dead weight on top of him. Richie leaves his head on Eddie’s chest, his hands grappling to support himself, and shouts, “What the fuck was that? I was so close to stealing Eds’ hat!”

“You were not,” Eddie says as Bev replies, “Stan is teaching me how to throw hardballs!” 

Richie lifts his head, looks at Eddie, and says, “The fuck are those snowballs made of—ten pounds of ice?”

“It’s possible,” says Stan, molding weapons for Bev’s perfect aim. He offers one up to Mike, who he is huddled close to. “What do you think?”

Mike takes it, holds it in two hands, and nods once. “Very durable. You could probably scratch someone’s eye out with this. Good job.” 

“Thank you,” says Stan. 

Eddie groans, shoving at Richie’s head. “Get off,” he whines. “You weigh eight hundred pounds.” 

“Do not.” But he pushes himself up anyway. Eddie watches his hands sink deeper. Richie balances himself on a knee, hovering over Eddie. “There is so much snow,” he complains.

“It's not done yet. We're supposed to get, like, nine inches or so today alone,” Eddie tells him. 

“Nine inches,” Richie muses. “Wanna know what else is—” 

“No.” Eddie slaps at him with a wet glove, gets snow in Richie’s mouth. 

Richie swallows it, which is _gross_ , and they both look up when Bev leans over them, blocking what little remains of the sun, weak behind a flurry of clouds. “How may I help you, the worst person I’ve ever met?” 

Bev says, “Just wanted to inform you that you’ve fallen beneath this mistletoe, and I know how much mistletoe traditions mean to you.” 

Bill shoots up from where he and Ben are making an intricate igloo-cave-thing, squinting. “Someone put muh-muh- _mistletoe_ out here? As if that’ll make this place more roh-roh-romantic.” He scoffs. 

“What,” Stan replies, “you don’t think having sex against a tree trunk is peak romance, Billy?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bill deadpans, patting down on the corner of their powdery wall. “Because I luh-love when my balls freeze off.” 

Mike says, “What an incredibly weird thing to say,” and shoves a handful of snow down Stan’s jacket. 

Stan yelps and smashes his mitten in Mike’s face. 

Eddie looks from Bev, cheeks flushed and grinning, to the mistletoe twisted around the branch above them and thinks he understands exactly what she did here. He swallows, the fake green leaves coated in a thin layer of snow, and feels his leg spasm where it’s against Richie’s. 

Suddenly it feels like Richie is too close. No, it feels like Richie is too far. When he pulls his gaze away from the tree, he sees him staring, and Eddie is glad for the cold, if only to mask the way he feels his cheeks heat up. The pink of a blush looks remarkably like the pink of the cold as it settles; he just hopes he doesn’t accidentally, like, melt the snow around him. That would be something else entirely. 

He can feel his breath, there on his cheek, on his mouth, and if Eddie tilts his chin, there would little to no space between them. Just an inch and he’d—

His heart flips, but he doesn’t know what to do. Bev is above them, and Richie is looking at him, a little crease in his brow. Eddie holds his breath, wonders if he imagines the way Richie slowly inches forward. Eddie swallows, lifts his neck, and there is almost no space between them now, a millimeter more and he’d brush his lips.

And then Richie is leaping up, sending snow flying in all directions as he throws himself at Bev. Eddie feels a wave fall over him, startling him out of his stupor, and then Richie is making a dramatic thing out of lifting Bev off her feet, twirling her, and kissing her. It’s a tiny thing, a hard peck, but it still makes Eddie feel like he’s fallen off a cliff, like the first time he jumped into the quarry, having underestimated the distance to the water. Falling, falling, falling— _SPLASH_. 

“Thanks for letting me know, dollface,” Richie says. His voice sounds weird. Strangled. But everything sounds robotic to Eddie right now. 

Bev gags, wiping her mouth, and flicks him on the ear. 

Stan throws a snowball at his cheek, sending Richie’s glasses flying. They land somewhere by Eddie’s elbow. He reaches out and curls his fingers around them, but other than that he does not move.

He stays there on the ground where Richie left him, feeling himself sink lower and lower, limbs untangling, heart in his throat. There’s an uncomfortable pounding in his ears and a stinging behind his eyes he tries to alleviate by closing them. He breathes—in and out, in and out—and tries to calm the jittery feeling taking over his body. He feels like jelly, like if he got up, he’d fall right back down, and he’s nervous; those are definitely his nerves, twisting and fraying, unsure. There’s another feeling, but is that—it’s not—is it disappointment? No. It can’t be. It’s not. It isn’t. He’s not disappointed at all that Richie did not kiss him under the mistletoe when he’s spent every opportunity over the years trying to touch him, trying to get close to him, teasing him under it. 

Every year. Cheek, forehead, nose. He’d expected—he doesn’t know—there isn’t much left of his face to kiss except for his—

Eddie bites down on his lip, a shudder wrecking through his body. Just his mouth. That’s all that’s left, unless Richie wanted to get technical and, like, kiss his eyelids, which Eddie would not like at all, _no_. 

His mouth. Just his mouth. 

He pushes himself up, wet and cold, grips Richie’s glasses, and slides them back up his nose. Snow blurs the lenses, dripping from the frames, and Richie blinks behind them. The look on his face is shy and small, a stunning contrast from earlier, where he was loud and brash and wanted Eddie to look at him. Wanted his hat. Wanted him. Wanted Eddie. 

Eddie knows a lot about want.

“I, uh,” he starts, wiping at his pants, fingers trembling. “I should go. I told my mom I’d be home an hour ago.” 

He turns, missing the way Bev catches Bill’s eye, how Stan’s glare intensifies when Richie blurts out, “Oh.” Eddie shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t start fiddling with them. 

He takes the long way home, mulling over it all, and that feeling settles at the bottom of his stomach like a weight, rooting itself there and spreading throughout his whole body. It takes over so entirely, this shittiness, that he allows his mother to yell and fuss when he gets home, annoyed that he’s gotten himself soaking wet like he’s six years old, not two away from being legal. He tracks snow into the house just to spite her, stomping a little, but then goes back and cleans it up, guilty that he’s taking his sour mood out on her and her hardwood floors.

Eddie even sits in the bath she draws him—because she thinks he’s a toddler—until his entire body prunes, trying not to think of how cold this feels in comparison to Richie’s warmth, despite the inches of snow around them. Tries not to think about how he could count every individual eyelash surrounding his eyes. How he’d smelled, how Eddie wanted to surge forward and nuzzle into his neck, live there in the parts of him that were seemingly unattainable.

He fails. 

_Fuck,_ he thinks. 

_I should have done it myself_ , he thinks, _but if that’s the way he was gonna act, maybe it’s best that I didn’t, that I haven’t—_

He doesn’t finish the thought, dunking his head under the water and staying there until he can no longer breathe, gasping when he decides to come back up. _No_ , he decided under there, _maybe I should have._ It’s not like he was making up the way Richie looked at him. He’s got eyes. He’s not blind. _Fuck_ , he thinks again, _I should’ve just done it._

When he gets ready for bed, he still leaves his window open, and when Richie climbs through at maybe one in the morning— _exactly twelve forty-seven_ —Eddie doesn’t act like anything is amiss. He rolls over, lets Richie climb in next to him, lets him nose at the back of his neck, lets him hike up the legs of Eddie’s pajama pants, lets him press his toes to his calves. He sags into Richie’s chest, arms wrapped loosely around his middle, and pretends to be asleep even as Richie drags down his shirt and kisses the knob at the top of his spine. Once, twice, three times. 

He leans his forehead there, mumbles something Eddie doesn’t hear, and Eddie’s staggering heartbeat keeps him up most of the night. 

When he does eventually wake, after the little sleep he's gotten, it's to them holding hands. Eddie is enthralled by this, the way Richie’s fingers fold around his, long and strong. They're so much bigger than Eddie's, which he likes for reasons he cannot place. Well, he _can_ if he really tries, but he panics instead when he feels Richie shift out of unconsciousness behind him. He tries to loosen his grip, to hide the fact that they're like this, but Richie breathes, “Don’t,” and tightens around him. 

Eddie stops, his pulse beating like a drum in his wrist, wild and chaotic. He has never been more aware, or more embarrassed, of it. Richie presses his thumb there, listening. Feeling. Rubbing small circles into the skin.

Richie’s heart matches its fervor, hard against Eddie’s back. Whatever shifted out of place earlier, it no longer fits where it used to. It’s a little bit bigger, the thing between them, a little bit _more_ , and it seems to him that they have expanded—Eddie’s _heart_ has expanded—to accommodate it. It is familiar but unknown, and Eddie stretches his neck out so Richie can hide his face there, soft and comfortable. 

They are so tightly wound in each other that for a brief second, their hearts beat as one and everything begins to make sense. 

* * *

**v.**

Eddie is seventeen and Richie is wearing a Grinch onesie.

He looks like a tall, gangly idiot, his curls pulled back with a headband of reindeer ears, and Eddie is probably in love with him. No, Eddie _is_ in love with him, and he has been for the past two years, which was less of a shock and more of—it was like _oh, that makes sense_ , when he finally stopped to think about it.

Now he looks at him, long-limbed on the couch, watching everyone else do Christmas karaoke, sucking on candy canes.

He wants to be close to him but he stays where he is, squished between Ben and Bill, chewing on his cheek. He can feel Richie’s gaze on him and he meet his eyes. Richie smiles, a tiny quirk of his mouth, and taps the couch cushion his feet are resting on. There is no one else there, like the seat is waiting for Eddie, and he wants to crawl over, wants to sit where he can feel Richie’s heat, but—

But he slurps at this peppermint martini Ben found the recipe for, and laughs at Stan, who has been dared by Bev to perform a stunning rendition of _Santa Baby_ , which she claims is funny because he’s Jewish. 

(Joke’s on her, though. Stan loves Santa, and spent time in his youth writing long-winded letters to ask for better friends for Christmas _even though I'm Jewish_ —as if he could get better ones.)

Mike has been choking for the past two minutes, watching Stan with rapt attention, clapping along with the beat he’s made even though it’s not the right one. 

Eddie glances over at Richie again, watching the way he works at the candy, his tongue coming out to lick at its curve. Eddie chugs the rest of his drink before standing up, woozy from Richie alone. His pajamas are not as festive as Richie’s, but he matches Bill, wearing a fleece set of blue and white snowflakes. He’s cozy, but he knows he could be more comfortable if he were snuggled up with Richie, who has the body heat of, like, two people combined. 

He does not go to him. 

His main objective is to get another drink because as much as he hates vodka, he likes this thing. On his trek to the kitchen, he notices that there isn’t any mistletoe hung around Ben’s house. He checks the doorways, the corners, the ceiling above the stairs, even beneath the porch light outside: _nothing_. Not a single thing. There is no mistletoe here, and… and… This is the first house Eddie’s been in where there is no reason for Richie to try to kiss him, and after last year—

Last year, he’d watched Richie panic, had an entire meltdown, and then the two of them danced around each other for months, leading to… to _this_ , whatever this is, with no real excuse to get close. Sure, there was the mutual attraction they ignored, a lot of questionable touching, and their friends' jokes about them being married, but it wasn’t like anything happened. And fuck, if Eddie wanted something to happen, if Eddie wanted to know what Richie tasted like, felt like. 

He couldn’t remember how Ben made this drink, so he merely pours himself a shot and downs it before heading back into the basement. He hears Stan sing quite loudly _SANTA BABY HURRY DOWN THE CHIMNEY TONIGHT_ , to which Bill says, “You’re not singing it suh-suh-suh-ensually enough, stuh-start over.” 

Eddie snorts as the song restarts and spots the assortment of headbands Bev had brought, abandoned on the dining room table. This is where Richie got his reindeer ears, where Bill found his Santa hat. Mike looks like an elf and Ben’s sporting two candy canes like alien antennae. 

Eddie licks his lips, grimacing at the bitter taste of the vodka, and feels like maybe all his prayers have been answered, like maybe it is a Christmas miracle after all. 

There’s a mistletoe one, and it calls to him. 

He plucks it from the pile, looks at himself in the mirror—bright eyes, messy hair, flushed cheeks—and shoves it on his head. Downstairs, Mike is laughing into Stan’s hair and Bev is applauding rambunctiously. Eddie missed the encore, he guesses. 

There is a lull as another song is chosen where Stan mutters something to Mike and steals his drink, finishing it off. Eddie makes the conscious decision to move his seat, abandoning Ben, and pushes Richie’s legs off the couch, taking their place. Richie is slouched now, somehow longer and leaner than he was before, all stretched out like this. Eddie looks, eyes where Richie’s hip bones are too sharp for the onesie to hide, and swallows. He thinks maybe that last shot was one too much and then wonders why he did it by himself, but there’s no time to really worry about that—and it’s not. It wasn’t anything. He’s as fired up as he’s ever been, maybe just a little bit braver. He’s been this fixated on Richie for half of his life; he’s just never been so aware of it before. 

Richie bites down on his candy cane and curls his fingers around Eddie’s knee. The heat of his hand sears into him there like he’s burnt through his pants, right down to his skin. He thinks if he pulls them up to his thigh he’ll see an imprint, but he’s always thought that. It’s felt like he’s belonged to Richie since the first time he’d met him, six years old on the playground. It’s like he is the other half of him he didn’t know he was missing. He never had to look. 

Fuck, he’s had every kiss he’s ever gotten from him ingrained on his skin—forehead, cheek, nose—all of them fucking screaming out _hi, I’m in love with my best friend, can’t you tell, can’t you see, I can’t get this off me even if I tried and I don’t want it gone anyway._

“Hi,” Eddie says. He watches Richie’s tongue poke out to flip the mint in his mouth. It’s pink. His cheeks hollow out. 

Richie chomps down, a loud snap, and says, “Hi.” His eyes dart about his face. “What’s this?” 

Eddie shakes his head, jingling the headband. “Mistletoe,” he says. “Duh.” 

“Duh,” Richie repeats. His gaze seems to change then, fires up as he looks at it, like if he turns away it’ll be gone. 

Eddie pulls his sleeve over his fist and knocks against Richie’s foot. “D’you wanna cuddle?” he asks. 

“Duh,” Richie says again, and he pulls himself up, shifting himself around so Eddie can wiggle his way in front of him. They don’t fit here on the couch; they don’t fit anywhere together anymore, but Eddie finds a way to, like, shrink himself so all his parts end up where they are supposed to be. He all but burrows himself into Richie, almost cat-like, and a surge of heat runs up his spine when he feels the hard skip of Richie’s heart against him. Eddie deliberately ghosts his touch over Richie’s thigh, fingers creeping up to the hipbone he’d been staring at earlier, all under the pretense of getting comfortable. 

Richie grabs hold of his wrist, squeezes, and then wraps Eddie up against him. Eddie could be content to do this all night, _has_ been content to do this all night before, hanging out like they are now, falling asleep with Richie behind him. It’s just… it’s not what he _wants._ It’s what he is used to, what he does not mind, but he did not put on this headband to do what he always does. And he thinks maybe if he doesn’t do this today, he’ll never do it at all. 

He is short where Richie is tall and he fits like a puzzle piece in the spaces that are leftover between them. He thinks maybe he can fit elsewhere too. Thinks maybe his mouth was made for Richie’s the same way his hands are. The same way his arms are, and his legs, and his heart. 

Eddie traces the length of Richie’s thumb, circles a knuckle. Richie lays his palm out flat, inviting, and Eddie slides his fingers between his. 

Their relationship is touchy, and Richie loves to cling, to hold, to mesh themselves together. They are always so close, but never close enough. 

Eddie feels Richie move again, resting his chin in the crook of his neck. He is warm and soft, smelling of pine and sugar and that indescribable scent that is just him. Eddie could pick it out in a crowd of thousands probably. 

He does not want this. Well, he does, but he wants— _more_. 

More more more _more_. 

Richie flicks at the mistletoe. It jingles. 

Eddie swallows, feeling the pad of Richie’s finger drag down the side of his neck, warm and slow. 

More more more _more._

Ben and Bev decide to sing _All I Want For Christmas Is You_. It is probably the cutest thing Eddie’s ever seen, Ben with his pink face and Bev with her eyes, all lovestruck. No one can hit any of Mariah Carey’s notes, but it’s still great, and—

And then Richie starts humming. 

And then Richie sings along, quiet enough that only Eddie can hear— _I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know, make my wish come true—_

And then Richie is—Richie is _Richie_ and Eddie fucking loves him. 

Eddie twists his upper body, turning his neck. His nose presses against Richie’s cheek, that’s how close he is. He says, “Hey.” 

Richie’s eyes are focused but dazed and the melody dies on his tongue. “Hey,” he says back. “What’s up?”

Eddie feels so warm and soft and happy, and he’s probably giving himself away with every second he stares. “You’re my best friend,” he tells him. 

“You’re mine, too,” Richie says. He glances up at Eddie’s headband, hesitantly touches the large bow. Eddie knows what he’s focused on; he’s focused on it too, looking at Richie’s mouth, plump and red from the candies he’d been sucking on. There’s a little sign glued to the middle of it, circular and green. It says _KISS ME!_ in bold white lettering. 

It could probably say _Kiss me, Richie_ and Eddie wouldn’t care. His facial expression may be doing that for him now anyway.

Behind him, Stan demands that Bill sings _Last Christmas_ in a British accent next. Bill overemphasizes his stutter so he can pass, tripping over every word in an extremely long sentence, but Bev shoots him a look, handing him the mic. 

“I’ll sing it with you,” Mike offers, because he is a good person. 

Eddie moves so he can face Richie head on, chest to chest, and shakes his head. The piece of his headband all but whacks Richie in the nose. He bats at it again like a kitten with a string, but when he meets Eddie’s gaze, he pauses. Shrinks. 

He sees him do this and understands why he does, but Richie is still holding him, not pushing him away. Something in Eddie breaks at that. Something in him says, _You can do this._

So he clears his throat and says, “This is mistletoe.”

“Yes,” Richie replies. “We’ve—we’ve established that.” 

“Do you know what they say people are supposed to do under the mistletoe?” Eddie prompts. 

Richie’s face goes _red_ , but his eyes fall to Eddie’s mouth and his hand slides down the length of his body to hold his hip. 

“Technically no one is under the mistletoe except for you, Eds,” Richie breathes. Bill’s British accent seems loud and appalling in comparison. He has no idea how to do it. _Richie could do it_ , Eddie thinks nonsensically. _I hate the British guy but he could do it._

Eddie pushes down on Richie’s shoulders, clamoring over him until he’s switched their positions, straddling him with Richie’s back pressed into the couch. Eddie’s palms hold him down and Richie keeps his own at his pelvis. His shadow looms over him, darkening Richie’s features, and he can see, clear as day, the mistletoe hanging from his headband in a shape on his forehead. 

“Now you’re under it, too,” Eddie whispers. He can feel every part of his body now, skin burning where Richie’s fingers tease under the hem of his pajama shirt. Eddie trembles beneath his touch. 

Richie nods, gaze frozen on Eddie’s face. “Me,” he says, “and you.” He swipes at his bottom lip, wets it, and pushes his knees up, pressing them against Eddie’s back, pushing him farther up his stomach. 

Mike whispers _Merry Christmas_ loudly in Bev’s ear, and Bill stumbles over literally everything except for _But if you kissed me now_ , loud and somehow insistently out of key. 

Eddie hears it, winding ‘round and ‘round in his head— _if you kissed me now, if you kissed me now, if you kissed me now—_ even as Mike and Bill ease into the chorus. He says to Richie, “Yeah. Both of us now.” 

“Both of us,” Richie repeats, and his hand lifts, trailing up Eddie’s side to curve around his neck. 

Eddie goes limp, lets Richie pull at him, guiding him down, and his heart beats so hard and loud and chaotic that he feels it in his ears, his hands, his gut. “Yeah.” 

“What do they say,” Richie begins, slow and painful, “people are supposed to do under the mistletoe?” 

Eddie is captivated by his mouth, the color so deep from the candy canes and the way he pulls at it with his teeth. It makes his skin look paler, emphasizes his eyes, the black of the frames of his glasses. He looks like he wants to devour him whole, but here’s the thing: Eddie’s been waiting so long, he wants to do it first.

Eddie could use his words to answer. He could tell him: _You’re supposed to kiss me, so are you going to?_

Or—

Or he can close the distance that remains between them, already nonexistent, and kiss him himself. He can get the message that way, find out that _this_ is what you are supposed to do.

Anyone who gets caught under the mistletoe has to kiss, that’s the legend, and Eddie is sick of Richie not kissing him properly.

Eddie picks option two. 

Richie opens up beneath him and he tastes minty, his tongue cool and persistent against his lower lip. Eddie mewls, sinking farther down, his elbows at Richie’s ears, and nudges his chin to move it, kissing into him at a different angle. Richie shudders, hands groping at Eddie’s sides, palming his chest, holding his cheeks, and he lets out a combination hum-whine, carding his fingers into Eddie’s hair. He knocks the headband to the floor.

At some point _Last Christmas_ ends. 

Eddie and Richie continue to kiss through the remainder of the holiday songs, through _Santa Claus Is Coming To Town_ , and _Baby, It's Cold Outside_ , and _Christmas (Baby Please Come Home_ ). There was even a Hanukkah song thrown in there they missed, wrapped up in each other. They remain that way as their friends slowly depart, as Ben stumbles on the staircase when Bev shoves him, giggling all the while. 

Stan flicks Eddie on the side of the face, and Eddie whines when he pulls away, blinking to look at him. “What the fuck,” he says. 

“We’re going upstairs,” Stan tells him. “Don’t follow us if you plan on doing this for another hour. Also”—he slips the headband back into Eddie’s hair, slaps his palm to Richie’s forehead—“this is fucking holly.” 

“Whatever,” Richie says, hitting him back. “I’d kiss Eddie under a fucking thornbush.”

“Sure,” Stan throws over his shoulder, climbing the stairs two at a time, “because it only took you five years to kiss him under the wrong fucking plant.” 

* * *

**vi.**

Eddie is twenty-five and Stan goes to the florist to get an authentic ball of mistletoe.

It is strung up in the doorway between the living room and their tiny excuse of a foyer. The Christmas tree glitters in the background, full of multicolored lights, and a menorah, with four candles burning, sits on a table to its right. 

He peers up at it, intrigued, and says, “Huh. So that’s what it looks like.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says from behind him. 

“It’s uglier than I imagined,” Eddie comments, pushing himself up onto his tiptoes. “I think I like the holly better.”

“They look exactly the same to me,” Richie admits. 

“This one has white berries,” Eddie explains. “Holly has red.”

“Excellent use of your eyesight.”

Eddie swallows down a snort. “One of us has to be able to see, right? You can’t even legally drive at night.”

“I’m working on it,” Richie says. There is a pause, and Eddie’s neck is still craned up. Richie brushes his fingers against the back of it, presses his thumb to the soft spot where his hair lies. “Hey, you gonna turn around? I know you got a hard-on for kissing under mistletoe.”

“I don’t have have a“—Eddie lifts a hand to whack at him, hits nothing but air, and twists on his heel—“ _hard-on_ for—” 

His retort dies on his lips, gaze dropping lower than he expected, to where Richie is down on one knee. His throat closes, mouth drying up. “What are you doing?” he croaks. He feels simultaneously too small and too large for his body. His hands are _clammy._

“I think they call this proposing,” Richie answers, and he grins in that nervous way of his, eyes bigger than he’s seen them in a long while. 

Eddie spies Bev’s head, popping back around the corner, the color of her hair unmistakable. He didn’t even know she was here. 

“No, you’re not,” Eddie blurts out, blinks matching his heart rate: fast and furious. “Normally when people propose they ask if you’ll marry them. They don’t just kneel there like a fucking idiot, not saying anything. Do you even have a ring? Normally there’s a ring.”

“You mean like this?” Richie unearths a box and says, “Spaghetti Man, will you marry me?” 

“Please never call me Spaghetti Man ever again,” Eddie says, voice high and tinny. It sounds like a squeak in his ear. “Do it over.”

Richie smirks at him, clears his throat. “Eddie,” he begins, more serious, more sincere. Deeper. He looks at Eddie and it’s like he can see through him to the atoms that make him up, that make him _his_. He doesn’t even have to ask to know what the answer is. It’s there, all over his face. It’s been there since before he knew what it meant. 

He gets off his knee, drops the ring in Eddie’s pocket, and clutches his face. He steps them back, one, two, three tiny motions, glances up then to his face, and asks, “Will you marry me?” 

Eddie can feel the mistletoe above them. Does not need to check to see. He swallows, says, “You’re such a fucking idiot,” and kisses him. 

* * *

**(vii.**

With Ben’s hair in his mouth, Mike asks, “Is that a yes?”

Bill replies, “It’s Eh-Eh-Eddie. Of course it’s a yes.” He gets Bev’s bony elbow to the gut as she peers around the corner. The five of them are stacked on top of each other in the hall, spying. 

“Can you believe _Richie_ is the first of us to get engaged?” she asks. She makes a displeased sound in the back of her throat. “They’re still just kissing.”

“They’re children,” Stan complains. “It’s _December_. This is, like, the tackiest thing he’s ever done.”

Ben snorts and tries to move his foot. He steps on the back of Bev’s heel. Apologizes. “You literally got a ladder and hung that mistletoe up for him, Stan.”

Stan sniffs. “You have no proof of that.”

“Bill,” Bev says, “there’s a picture in my back pocket. Take it out. Show Stan.” 

Bill blindly searches for her pants, accidentally gets Mike, and pulls out a Polaroid when he finally manages to find Bev. He doesn’t even look at it before holding it over his shoulder for Stan, who snatches it from him. 

It’s of him, all right, and he's balancing on the top of a ladder with a look of utmost concentration on his face. He’s reaching up, hanging the mistletoe from a hook he painstakingly twisted into the ceiling. In Bev’s loopy penmanship it says _Stan prepping for Richie’s proposal_ with the date in the corner. 

“You’re not getting this back,” Stan tells her. “I’m burning it.”

“Go ahead,” dismisses Bev. “I have multiple.”

Ben laughs. “I bet he asks Stan to be his Best Man.” 

Stan slips the photo in the front of his flannel shirt. “He fucking better.”)


End file.
